Accidental Groom (Unintentionally Yours #10)

Prologue

Elena

Each step down the aisle sounds like a gunshot in the cathedral silence.

There’s no music, no swarm of bridesmaids or groomsmen grinning across the room from the steps of the pulpit.

Just whispers.

Around me like shards of glass, sharp and cutting and impossible to ignore.

Where is he?

The walkway’s adorned with white roses spilling from tall silver urns lining the end of each pew, candles burning along the edges of the room beneath the stained glass.

Every detail right.

Except for the empty space where George Highcourt should be standing.

There’s no slicked-back sandy hair. No perfectly tailored suit hugging his six-foot frame. No bored, blue eyes flicking toward his phone when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

My fiancé since I was sixteen.

Arranged as a goddamn transaction.

He should be standing at the end of the aisle.

But there’s no one.

My fingers dig into my father’s arm until I can feel the bone straining beneath.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look at me.

Instead, he stares ahead, as if he can conjure the Highcourt heir through sheer force of business necessity.

Because that’s all this is — a contract dressed up in lace and champagne and strangers here to congratulate me, or more accurately, whisper about me.

The stems of my bouquet go sticky in my palm from my death grip.

The dress, ivory silk with a fitted bodice that cinches my waist in before flaring out, felt perfect in the boutique. Now it’s just a beautiful, suffocating cage that squeezes my ribs until my breath comes shallow, accentuating every curve I’d rather not show.

I should’ve picked something looser.

I should’ve known.

Breathe, Elena. Just breathe. Maybe he’s blowing his nose, or—

More whispers.

“Where is he?”

“Heard outside that he didn’t show up.”

“Well… can you blame him?”

The last one hits like a dagger between my shoulder blades, punching the minimal amount of air in my lungs out of me.

Sixteen-year-old me didn’t love George.

I didn’t even know him, hadn’t spoken a single word to him. But my parents had told me it was my duty — Highcourt Hotels needed a distillery partner, and our distillery needed their prestige.

“This marriage will secure our family’s place,” my mother had said, her voice clipped like she’d been talking about acquiring a piece of land rather than handing over her eldest daughter.

I’d agreed.

Not for them, never for them.

But for my little sister, Sarah.

If I went through with it, she wouldn’t have to.

So I never asked myself if I loved him. That wasn’t the point.

I glance desperately into the crowd, needing an anchor, searching for Ross. He’s been my best friend since I was ten, my safe place, my shoulder to cry on, but apparently George isn’t the only man pulling a disappearing act today. The familiar dark hair and crooked grin are nowhere to be found.

Instead, I find Sarah.

She’s in the front pew, a slash of emerald silk against the white and gold backdrop, her big brown eyes wide as saucers. Even with the empty space at the end of the aisle, I can’t bring myself to fully regret doing this, not when it’s for her.

She gives me a tiny shake of her head and a shrug, a silent communication that she doesn’t know where George is, and I swallow hard.

But I keep walking.

Heat creeps up my legs, swallowing me whole under the gown, beads of sweat collecting along my skin and making my thighs rub uncomfortably.

I feel too big, too much, the silk clinging to the swell of my hips and the curve of my breasts, every inch of me I’ve spent years trying to smooth and hide.

George likes his women like he likes his wine — slim, dry, nothing lingering.

Maybe that’s why he isn’t here.

The murmurs swell like a tide threatening to drag me under as I reach the halfway mark, and the space at the altar shifts.

I blink.

Someone moves into the groom’s position.

Not George.

His—

Christ. His father.

Harald Highcourt.

Harry to the headlines and the family, Mr. Highcourt to everyone else.

He steps forward like he’s claiming territory, his silver hair styled pristinely, his close-cropped beard freshly trimmed.

Dark green eyes follow me like a hawk as I walk down the aisle in the middle of the church, flicking to my father beside me only briefly before turning back to me.

His suit is perfectly cut charcoal, likely nicer than his son’s would have been, and his shoulders are straight, straining slightly as he clasps his hands in front of him like this is some kind of business meeting.

Which, I guess, it is.

It’s been years since I’ve seen him up close, and he’s older now, sharper — not a hint of softness as he stands there. He looks carved from something colder than marble, and the sight of him here, in George’s place, looking like that, sends a rush of confused heat down my spine.

My steps falter as more confusion crashes over me.

The congregation erupts in quiet chatter, whispers turning to gasps that turn to something close to hushed hysteria.

My father’s grip on my arm becomes bruising.

My stomach flips violently.

And Harry’s eyes cling to mine as I reach the final stretch of the aisle.

No smile, no warmth, just a cool and calculating assessment that strips me bare despite the layers of silk.

God, he must be nearly twenty years older than me — but somehow, impossibly, stupidly more magnetic than George ever was.

There’s a gravitas to him that his son never had, the kind of controlled power that pulls you in even when you know you should run.

My hands shake.

My chest feels like it’s being crushed under the weight of lace and too little oxygen.

The room narrows to his face and the thunderous pounding in my ears as I take the few steps up to my would-be father-in-law.

I open my mouth to ask where George is, what’s happening, why this feels like stepping off a cliff—

Mr. Highcourt looks rattled.

His jaw tenses, and he shifts his eyes from me to my father. “George isn’t coming.”

The words swirl in my head.

The floor tilts sideways.

I hear a gasp and a shuffle from somewhere close as my knees buckle like cut strings on a puppet, the bouquet slipping from my fingers.

Strong hands catch me before I hit the ground.

The world spins as I’m suddenly pressed against a chest, a solid but quick thumping of a heartbeat beneath wool and muscle.

Cologne invades my nostrils, dark and woody, grounding and dizzying all at once.

“Got you,” he murmurs.

It’s the last thing I hear before my vision goes white.